


Fissure

by wedgewood



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 16:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5791861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wedgewood/pseuds/wedgewood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tell me, is it not ironic that Samaritan, unable to locate you or your associates, rectified this difficulty with no more than eight-by-ten photos dispensed to a handful of human agents?  Nonetheless, you now belong to Him.<br/>Harold centric Whump, h/c, Team, Gen or pre-slash. Takes place after season 4 ‘Skip’ .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fissure

**Author's Note:**

> I finished this several weeks ago and when I read the newest report about the probable cancelation of the show AND the delayed airing of season 5, I lost all steam. Knowing that this will sit unfinished forever I decided to post it as is, incomplete but some action, some whump, some feels, and perhaps to be finished later. Better than rotting on a harddrive like season five. This has not been Beta read.

Querying for relevant numbers…query…query…

Samaritan runs a constant line of code, every moment since the task had been put to it. Searching for the Machine and its assets, examining. There is a flaw in its programming, a virus or software error that no one can find, human or computer alike. If Samaritan could feel frustration it likely would, but as it is a computer it simply feels…nothing. This search is always running.

Samaritan has one of those assets now, Sameen Shaw, a reluctant and unwilling captive. No help from this one, not yet, until her programming is wiped clean and new installations can be uploaded. Her hardware is damaged but she is being repaired and then her software will be adjusted, updated.

The capture of Shaw by asset designation: Martine has given Samaritan a novel idea. Samaritan reaches into archives to find pixels and jpegs of the relevants it searches for. It translates these digital bundles to images then prints the images onto cardstock paper. This paper is given to agents and they are ordered to take anyone closely resembling the photos. Samaritan dislikes using human agents, humans are so slow and wicked and unpredictable. 

Samaritan would be excited about the day unsatisfactory humans are deleted (all humans are unsatisfactory), but alas it cannot feel emotions, so it feels…nothing.  
The query runs in the background as Samaritan slowly and surely razes the world.

\--

The photographs have long been circulated and agents are so familiar with the faces of Reese and Finch and Root they hardly need to look. It becomes a competition, whoever can find the assets will have won, but alas no luck in the first weeks of search. It is a very big city after all, and Samaritan agents have daily jobs and missions to accomplish, this is just a side project for now. 

On a cold wintry day a dark headed agent sees the quarry, a small man in a dark overcoat and fedora gimping through a city park. The man’s pointy face is shrouded by hat and scarf but after looking at his photo daily for weeks on end she knows she’s found one of them. Heart racing in fiery anticipation, she promptly forgets about the assassination of a low-level government official and veers off to follow him.

She catches him quickly due to the packed snow trail which accentuates his stilted walk. She is above the law and feels no need to talk to the quarry, she simply grabs him around his neck from behind and pulls him to her. He resists of course, and she clocks him upside the head with her Glock. She takes him and smashes him ear first against a large oak trunk, first one side then the other and hears a crunch as his earpiece breaks. He is reeling and squirming and speaking to her, asking why she is attacking him, he is just a teacher, innocent. 

She ignores these obvious lies and sticks rude fingers into his right ear canal to yank out a broken earpiece. This quiets him down, because why would a teacher wear such high tech gear? He is still squirming, tries to poke her eyes with gloved fingers which she easily deflects and breaks one of those probing fingers in punishment. She has caught the prey and she cannot wait to make the call in, but he is still struggling, putting up more of a fight than she would have thought. She tries to decide what to do, remembers his limp and thinks she could help that along a bit, damage him a little more so he could not get away from her even if he gets free. Samaritan never said anything about delivering the goods whole and uninjured.

\--

He twists out of her grasp, scrabbling away in an ungainly move born of panic and pain. He expects her to reach for him, pull him back in by his scruff, grab his scarf and throttle him back into position. He has no illusions about his physical prowess and she is taller than him, broad shouldered and strong.  
She surprises him. Leans into his escape and shoves him hard. 

Finch goes reeling, the unexpected motion wheeling him around in the ice-slick mud. He scrambles for purchase, the tread on his expensive boots inept, falling forward. Both hands hit the ground and leather-gloved fingers claw for purchase. His back screams at this contortion and fused cervical vertebrae strain for range of motion. His left hip pulses, unable to bear the weight his predicament places on it. The leg quivers, trembles, folds under him, atrophied muscles unequal to the task. The coxofemoral joint flexes violently, far beyond what orthopedic plates and pins securing his previously shattered acetabulum and pelvis allow. Something creaks and pops with tension, then releases.

Finch’s mind goes white.

He buckles down into the slushy snow, strangled cry, starry-eyed agony, fireworks bursting onto retinas, body franticly trying to channel the flood of nociception from his left limb. The sheer agony radiating from his hip is new, startling in its sudden intensity, a crescendo of hurt that swells past normal discomfort into the obscene. Harold is intimately knowledgeable of pain. He knows chronic pain patients experience new and inventive forms of discomfort that a healthy body could not comprehend, nerves feeding back on themselves, priming the brain for excruciating loops. He has spent many a day hunched in suffering over a computer, or lay in a bedridden torpor, unable to rise even to feed or cloth himself. But this sensation in his hip is sharp-edged and profound, a disadvantage of his primed nervous system.

Unable to move, he lies in face down in the slush and tries to breathe. For something automatic, it proves most difficult.

The Samaritan agent’s boot is inches from his cheek now. She cruelly toes his temple sideways, sending tendrils of hot pain down his neck and back, another flash of fire in his overwhelmed nervous system. Her boot on the back of his neck humiliates but also forces his face further into the snow. Breathing is impossible! He chokes and gags, arms waking up enough to flounder instinctually. One fumbling hand comes up and grasps her leg, one finger broken and lax. Instead of skin he meets cold steel; an ankle holster holding a small hand gun. 

Before Finch can comprehend this, the agent snarls at him, shakes her limb free and rewards his escape attempt by grinding his hand into the snow. She kicks at his shoulder and his side and, oh God, his hip which pretty much finishes off the last bit of conscious thought he has. After all, one’s brain is only capable of processing a finite amount of stimuli, gating the rest away until necessary blackness descends.

Pinpoints of light and dark spots dance over fading vision, the portrait a field of unchanging white snow. He cannot breathe, a heavy weight falling on him, compressing his thorax. Red colors the white landscape now, just past his nose, growing large and grotesque in brilliant hue. He wonders if he should be alarmed, was his blood staining the ground? Black telescopes his vision down to pinpoints of white and red, and then nothing at all.

\--

Cresting a small rise, Reese and Root see Harold up the trail; they are meeting at this quiet park to discuss a new number with Finch. To Reese’s shock he sees a tall dark headed women with a Glock in one hand and Finch in a cruel hold in the other. Reese’s heart rate elevates, not from physical exertion (his body is suddenly sharp-edged and keen) but because that’s Finch’s neck she has her arms around. The smaller man is twisted in her grasp, body awkwardly contorting against such violent restraint, legs spread wide for purchase and hands pawing ineffectively at her forearms. His hat has come off and his overcoat is riding up in a wrinkled mess. Blood trickles from his ear and his scarf is unraveled and trailing. The manila envelope containing information on the number is forgotten in the snow.

Reese is unhesitant as he raises his own weapon to center on her chest, but she is already shimmied behind Harold, pulling him bodily in front of her. Reese watches apprehensively as Harold attempts to extract himself, ducking and twisting, watches as she thrust him away from her forcefully. Root yells in alarm as Finch goes down, skidding and slipping into a horrific fall capable of harm to even an able-bodied person, a dull thud of flesh on frozen ground. Reese does not yell, but his insides clench as Finch buckles like an unstringed puppet.

The agent trains her weapon on the body. “Take another step and I put one through his head.” 

Reese lowers his weapon slightly, Root does not. Her grip was, as always, rock steady.

She replies, “What does Samaritan want with a professor?”

The agent scowls and presses Finches neck into the ground with a heavily booted foot. “I know who you all are.”

Root smiles her crooked little smirk and replies, “I just hate that for you, because now I’ll have to kill you.”

Reese simply says. “Release him.”

Her captive is sputtering, gasping, each breath ending in a high pitched wheeze. Reese raises his gun again, can’t stand to watch the man who has saved him, who has given him everything, a new life and new hope and a mission, groveling in the muddy snow. The agent kicks at Harold now, the flailing arms still. She kicks him again and again as his body seems to collapse more into the frozen ground. The wheezy breaths stutter.

Red engulfs his vision, then sparks and blazes as fire; Reese raises his gun and shoots the agent square between her eyes before his mind can change itself. She falls in a lifeless heap across Harold’s back, gun harmless in the snow. Neither body moves. The shot echoes back across the silent white field as flakes falls from grey skies.  
They need to secure the area, watch for additional agents. Reese knows this, as does Root but neither one seems inclined to do so. They slide to Harold’s side at the same time. Reese tosses the dead agent off Finch as Root jams cold fingers against his carotid.

“Heart beating strong and fast, too fast.” She turns away, gun out, considering, eyes half crazed. 

“Easy Finch.” Reese is hesitant to move Harold, but more Samaritan agents are surely coming, so time cannot be spared. Hell, Samaritan probably monitors 911 and ambulance calls in the city so external aid is out of the question.

A hand on Harold’s neck to steady and one on his shoulder allows a gentle roll over. He supports the inflexible neck and uses his other hand to run a cursory exam of Harold’s chest and arms, clinically and efficiently pushing at and under layers of tailored fabric, glad of the extra padding it provided during such a fall. 

Red-rimmed and watery, Harold’s eyes are open wide, staring through him, pupils mydriatic with pain and fear, only a small rim of pallid blue. His breaths run fast and shallow through his nose while his lips are tightly pressed. Sweat beads his brow and fine lines of pain make his face appear scrunched, even more mouse-like than usual. The thick rimmed glasses are gone; his face looks undressed and vulnerable. The genius seems unaware of his surroundings and he’s shaking.

“You with me?” Reese notices the fine tremors running up and down the length of his friend’s body with jerkier and more obvious twitches to his left limb. A small pattern in the snow, a U-shaped divot where Finch’s heel trembles a beat of pain is formed beneath him, a ghastly snow-angel.

“Harold, hold on.” His hand gently cupping the back of Finch’s neck palpates the fused vertebrae under ropey scar tissue for additional injuries, soothes over his brow and cheek briskly. He grasps a wool jacket lapel, expensive and soft fabric made unyielding by snowy mud, and gently pulls up from the ground.

Harold responds like he’d been shocked. He makes a strangled, ugly sound in the back of his throat and his whole body convulses once, powerfully. He jerks out of Reese’s grasp onto his side. His right leg and arms begin to crawl, a panicked attempt at escape. The left limb is limp and unmoving so that Harold folds over the top of it at an impossible angle. 

Used to gruesome injuries on himself and others, Reese is unprepared for the wave of horror that flashes through him upon seeing the paretic limb and the desperation of its owner. A swell of pity washes through him that he pushes away, to be examined at a later date. Harold neither wants nor needs that. Although crippled, the man has time and again proven his strength and independence, pity has no place here.

Reese seizes the coiled form with one arm forced under Finch’s back and shoulders and the other threading under both knees. He pulls Harold to him more forcibly than intended, lifts him into the air for a moment before supporting the scrabbling body half in his lap. The over compensation is a product of adrenaline and difficulty guessing the smaller man’s weight, only ever an estimate due to ever-present layers of bespoke suit.

He thinks, Oh how his former employees would laugh and cry out in shock to see such tender care! 

“Harold.” He rasps firmly and quietly over the other man’s gasping breaths, ending in soft whimpers “Calm down, relax. It’s Root and me, ‘Mr. Reese’.

His mouth ticks a tiny smile at the title Finch insists on using, the formal billionaire unwilling or unable to convert to first names. He presses Finch’s forehead briefly to a stubbled cheek in an attempt to comfort the panicking man.

Finches face is now his usual purposefully impassive, aside from tension around his mouth. Wide pupils constrict sluggishly and eventually find Reese’s face. Harold peers up at him myopically. 

“Mr. Reese?” he asks carefully. The voice is startlingly frail.

“Yes, Harold.” 

Root glances down at them, head cocked sideways, and interrupts, “We have to go now, She’s warning me.”

Ignoring her for a minute, Reese locks onto Harold’s face. “Are you hurt badly?”

“S-stop.” Harold breathes out, confused.

“What do you need?” Reese’s concern grows at this. He shifts Harold’s upper body so it’s leaning against him, brushes his free hand through spikey hair to check for head injuries.

The voice trembles and falters so that Reese has to lean an ear right up to blueish lips that whisper, “Please Mr. Reese, release me, this current position is intolerable.”  
This request’s diction is flawless and Reese feels great relief at the normalcy of it.

Reese unthreads Harold from his support quickly, too much so judging by a soft grunt. But there’s a relieved gasp as the body straightens.

“Can you move Harry? We have to go.” Root squats down on his other side and grips his shoulder frantically. 

Finch does not respond for long enough that Reese wonders if the blood from his ear is a more serious injury than a broken earbud, but then Finch answers quietly, “I see no alternative.” He seems breathless just lying there.

“I’ve got you Finch.” Reese asserts, gathering the injured man to him.

“Wait, stop!” Finch trips over the words, then turns sheet white, his eyes rolling up.

“Finch, dammit!” Reese shakes him once.

Harold refocuses shakily, rapid blinks.

“I am in…considerable discomfort…” he glances at his legs without moving his head, “Movement of my hip or back will assuredly send me into unconsciousness.”  
“What’s hurt worst?” Reese questions, gently straightening the limbs again, not removing his supporting touch.

“My ventured guess would be a fracture near the hip.” Harold states flatly, trying to sound objective and failing. “That location is compromised from previous injury, you see.”

At times Reese overlooks Harold’s lameness, it is certainly always present, sometimes subtle sometimes not but so much a part of Harold that Reese doesn’t think on it. Occasionally he’d support Finch through crowded streets with an offered elbow (often ignored) or place a grounding hand on the man’s bicep down narrow stairs (rarely appreciated). Moments like these were scarce and the only acknowledgment of his friend’s infirmities. 

The limp is no different than the thick glasses or three piece suits- an integral part of Finch. And Harold neither seeks nor appreciates sympathy or assistance for his mysterious handicap. Reese does not know the full extent of his partner’s injuries, but suspects only through extreme wealth, prolonged medical care, and stubbornness and steel that Finch was ever ambulatory.

“You’d rather walk?” Reese asks doubtfully.

“With assistance.” Harold looks upset, his gaze steely.

“Time’s out.” Root shrugs, pressing one hand to her right ear and standing. “She says if we don’t go now, Samaritan will have us.” Root pauses for a second, her gaze focuses on Reese now. “We won’t escape in 75.5% of projected scenarios if we bring him.” She looks mildly upset.

Reese presses a hand to his own ear and growls, “Unacceptable, find a scenario in that 24 and a half percent where we all make it, or I die trying.” Reese glances down at Harold and catches flickers of emotions on Harold’s face: exasperation, gratitude and (if he’s not mistaken) no small amount of fondness.

Root just looks relieved at this pronouncement, which is interesting to Reese. The two computer geniuses seemed to have grown closer, yet a new rift had developed recently between them.

Decided, Reese squares up to Harold, positions himself straddling the straightened limbs and grasp Finch’s underarms. Finch catches on quickly, reciprocating a firm hold on Reese’s shoulders as the taller man draws him up. Harold follows Reese dutifully, allows him to do the lifting with no complaint or directions. Reese feels the concentrated passivity from Finch and assumes that the man has ample experience being hauled around. This makes him sad, he imagines how hard it must have been for the independent recluse to depend on others during his decrepitude.

Once standing, Reese remains entangles with Harold until his equilibrium seems present.

“Easy.” Reese says. “When you’re ready.”

Finch slowly pulls back, panting, hair in damp spikes. Reese does not completely release him, instead shifts his support and braces Finch’s arm over his shoulders. He threads an arm behind Finch to grasp his waist, hitching him up a few inches as he slumps.

“Okay?”

Finch does not respond, probably cannot speak without screaming, so his eyes flit towards Reese quickly and his mouth stiffens into an expression Reese recognizes as Resolved.

“Up the path a few hundred yards, She says there’s a shelter there.”

Reese feels some degree of reticence. He dislikes hiding, would rather stand and fight, but he had insisted they not leave Harold and thus limited the potential scenarios. He trusts the Machine to make the right decision.

Starting haltingly, Reese steps forward on the snowy path, packed hard by dedicated joggers and walkers. Harold is able to step well with his right leg and bear weight, but on his left he performs an arduous lift from his knee that hitches the lower limb forward only several inches. He touches the barest bit a toe to the ground, leaning mostly on Reese before shifting his stance back to the right side quickly.

This syncopated gait is damned painful to watch, however it is performed in a practiced and methodical manner that hints at rote. Curiosity swells as Reese ponders Finch’s history; his youth and family, building his Machine and his injuries. A complex, undoubtedly fascinating past, veiled by paranoia and privacy. Who had been there to help during his injury? Whose shoulders had supported Harold as Reese did now? Or had the reclusive man suffered alone, crutching to and fro in his various hideaways one painful step at a time?

Hitching along against Reese, Finch still does not speak. It is unsettling - running for his life with no tinny voice making quips into his earpiece. The silent man drags alongside rasping with occasional soft grunts, but no other sound escapes. It reminds Reese of an injured animal, staying silent from predators and convincing prying eyes it is hale. Quiet in his suffering, like a bird with a broken wing hopping along determinedly. Finch always had been good at blending in to survive. 

Root strides ahead, unaware or uncaring to the predicament of those around her, all focus on the god in her head. She does not offer assistance and they do not ask. Reese is under the distinct impression that Root makes Harold uncomfortable, especially recently. But she is in the end, an ally.

“She says we have to increase our speed, we won’t make it, 95 percent failure at the current mph.” Root relays.

She abruptly turns to them, inserts herself against Harold’s other side, vicelike grip under his bicep in a clumsy attempt to assist. The man in the middle stumbles as this change in balance interrupts his careful stride. She pulls Harold forward and by extension Reese as well. Harold’s hop-step cannot perform at this speed and the result is his left leg simply drags while the right fights to keep up. With two support pillars they double their speed. Behind them a linear tract from Harold’s injured limb carves the snow.

Reese notes with concern Finch’s gasping increases exponentially. Finch’s eyes are streaming tears from the cold and wind. His face is less white now and more a greyish shocky color, lips blueish and chapped. His head is as slumped as his neck injury allows and he begins to wilt in their duel support. Only pure grit is keeping him going, slowly melting down until all weight hangs between them.

Finch’s pride be damned! and his hip and back as well, there is no alternative. Reese shifts, pushing Root away and thrusts one shoulder into Finch’s abdomen to stand, a well-executed fireman’s carry. Harold groans, struggles faintly, clutching at Reese’s jacketed back, breathless so that no protest can be verbally made.

“Go.” Reese orders. Root turns up a rise striding as fast as the slick snow allows. Harold feebly beats at Reese with dangling arms which he ignores.

“I think you’re hurting Harry. That’s an uncomfortable position for a conscious person.” Root suggests.

Reese doesn’t have breath to respond but silently agrees. He does not stop.

A small metal shed with a rusted ‘Restricted Access’ sign comes into view, tucked behind a cluster of evergreens off the path. Root doesn’t hesitate as she punches a code into the door keypad. It makes a happy chirrup and unlocks.

The groundskeeper shed is dry and well-lit with dusty large windows. Various lawn equipment is piled around the perimeter, unneeded and abandoned in the dead of winter. Reese carefully bends to lay his cargo at the foot of a lawnmower, dead brown grass scatter around it, a remnant of summer long past.

Finch immediately turns to his right side and retches, then curls limply, unable to move. Reese briskly rubs up and down Finch’s arm in apology and stands. “What’s the plan?”

Root concentrates for a while, listening to her god and receiving instructions. “About a fifty percent failure rate at this point. She says wait for Fusco.”

“And if Samaritan agents locate us in the meantime?” Harold grates from the cold cement floor.

“We’ll be ready.” Reese swings his Sig up, checks it over, and repeats the same with three more weapons efficiently.

“I feel better already.” Harold says wryly. He hitches a bit and tries to unfurl a little, obviously wanting to contribute.

Reese says, not unkindly, “Just stay still, don’t aggravate your injuries.”

Finch huffs but his body seems too compromised at this part to defy the order.

On the other side of the shed Root peers out one window, then the next, pacing and fretting and whispering aloud. “Where’s Sameen, we need you and you aren’t here, where are you?”

“Wherever she is, Shaw can take care of herself.” Reese reminds Root.

“I know that, of course.” Root snaps, still fretting.

Harold remains purposefully silent now. His deduction of Sameen’s fate is universally unpopular and thus better left unsaid.

Root freezes. “They’re coming, they know we’re here.”

“How?” Harold whispers the same moment Reese breaths “Get ready!”

“Someone called in the agent’s body. We have to head to the park perimeter fast! We’ve gotta leave Harry.”

“No.” Reese replies plainly, expression absolutely blank and eyes steady. He has a gun in each hand.

“We’ll rescue him, they want him alive, but if we’re caught there’s no one to rescue us!” Root is shouting now.

“I don’t care.”

“Mr. Reese, you should-“ Harold begins.

“Not leaving you.” Reese’s voice is calm and leaves no room for argument. “You go Root, someone’s got to rescue Shaw, then you both can be our heroes.”

Root stares at him in desperation, frozen and undecided. She removes her silly purple hat topped with bobble and kneels by Harold to pull it snuggly over his head and ears, presses her palm to his cold cheek. “I’m sorry Harry. For everything.”

Harold twitches his shoulders stiffly which passes as a nod from him. “Take care Ms. Groves.” He is not ready to offer her full pardon for her recent actions but wants to part on good terms.

“There’s a tracker in the hat.” She explains, adjusting it slightly. It looks ridiculous on him and she tries not to giggle. Best not act crazy.

Harold understands and painfully raises his undamaged hand to clasp her quickly.

“Find Shaw, keep your heads low, stay alive” Reese instructs her. 

Root slips out the door and is gone just like that. It is very still.

Reese looks down at the rumbled figure sprawled uncomfortably in dead grass clippings. He feels a rush of protectiveness and utter affection for this eccentric man. Solitary and suspicious, Finch nevertheless forces himself daily to overcome his fears for the benefit of complete strangers. Whatever may come, Reese knows he will always remember Finch fondly. Small moments together: a dry joke and thick lenses and loose tea leaves, dusty books and sprinkled pastries and Bear’s baths. A man guided by an uncompromising (inconvenient) moral compass. 

Reese knows he will do anything to protect this man. He is not sure he is qualified to say, but he thinks he loves this man. But Reese doesn’t quite know what love is, really though.

“I’m sorry Harold.” He says forlornly, kneeling so he isn’t looming.

“Mr. Reese, as always you have surpassed any expectations.” Harold shifts slightly, trying to sit up. “Are you positive you wish to stay?”

Reese helps him lean against the lawnmower. “I’m not going anywhere Finch.”

“If we’re captured they may harm you.” 

“They’ll likely kill both of us.”

“I suppose. We always knew the risks.” 

“That we did. I want you to take this.” Reese pushes his smallest sidearm into Finch’s lax grasp.

Harold reluctantly tightens gloved fingers, holding it away from his body, repelled.

“Point and shoot.” Reese reminds him.

“We shall see.” Reluctantly, but Harold does not release the weapon.

The window in the door shatters and a gunshot ricochets into the shed. Reese shoots through the busted window deftly and someone shouts in pain. The windows are shot out now, one after the other, shattered glass everywhere. Three small canisters are thrown in and roll over the uneven cement.

“Finch, eyes and ears!” Reese shouts just as the flash grenades go off. He can’t see if Finch has heard him in time as he slams his eyelids shut and plugs his ears.  
He shoots two agents next as they break through the door and a third climbing in a window. The smoke is heavy from the grenades, but he can see Harold on the floor, a small nautilus curled against the mower, gun in a lopsided two-handed hold. There are shouts and anther BANG! Reese dispatches two more enemies efficiently, one bullet each through the thorax, not the time for kneecaps.

He is vastly outnumbered and soon overwhelmed. Reese takes a slug into his bullet-proof vest and then another to his forearm which sends his weapon flying out of numb fingers. Several shots hit the mower Finch is against, one tearing through the gas tank and causing a miniature explosion of fire and heat and air. Finch’s body is blown aside by the force of it and Reese shouts at him, but he seems ok and is trying to sit up. Several sets of arms encircle Reese from behind, he shrugs them off and elbows one in the face, a satisfying crunching noise. Then a crack on his head, cold steel against warm flesh, and Reese knows no more. His last thought is Harold, guess our numbers are up…

\--

Harold sees John go down and tries to stand, tries to shout and stop what they’re doing. Then gun is heavy in his hands and he knows he should use it, but it seems pointless when he’s so outnumbered and Reese is just lying there limply. Two shadowy figures have him disarmed before he can react and he painfully cowers away from them before he gets ahold of himself and straightens under a pretense of bravery. Harold has never had an abundance of machismo and valor but he holds his own kind of strength. He would willingly give his life for his cause or to save a deserving person, and that quality lends him an air of calm acceptance during dangerous situations. 

The figures are dim in the shed so their faces are shaded and hard to read. Reese is slung between two, another clasps Harold’s bicep in a steel grip and hauls upwards. Harold only makes it hallway up when his hip screams at him and the broken screws and plate shift with what Harold swears is an audible grind. He promptly collapses back down and sees white and stars. He wishes he could pass out like Reese and be spared further agony, if only for a few moments. The figure is shouting at him and shaking his arm roughly, but Harold simply ignores the brute knowing that no amount of persuasion can make his injured leg work. 

The figures stand around him now and are discussing him like he’s a particularly annoying problem. Harold’s eyesight is still sparking and his ears ringing from the tuning fork of his hip. He cannot contemplate escape, physically it is impossible but he would never leave Reese to Samaritan alone. 

One of the men brings the butt of his gun towards Finch and he thinks, Well good, when he sees it racing towards his skull. He welcomes unconsciousness and the sweet black numbness She brings for him.

\--

Reese wakes up suddenly, the familiar feeling of a minor concussion not dulling his senses much. His memory is sharp and he knows he and Harold were taken, supposedly by Samaritan operatives. Reese takes his time sitting up when he sees he is unguarded in a dim room that looks to be an unused laundromat. He absorbs the one door (steel, barred, double deadbolt, steel mesh window reinforced), several pipes (hot and cold water, steam, waste), and two broken chairs (could kill or maim in approximately twenty ways with those). His wrists are secured tightly with zip ties and his ankles are double bound similarly. But maybe Reese is not as clear headed as he’d like because he only just notices (with relief) that he has a fellow prisoner. He rather thought Harold would be dead already.

In a graceless heap on the other side of the room lies Harold. The body is breathing slowly and comfortably for the first time since his struggle in the snow. The heap is folded carelessly and Reese can tell he is unconscious rather than asleep because there is no way Harold could be comfortable in his current position were he aware. Reese crawls over to the man and shakes his right leg firmly, the only body part he be confident is uninjured. After a minute the man groans in an unguarded fashion, a pained and drawn out sound. His respirations increase and he blearily opens his eyes.

“Harold, you with me?” 

If Reese’s voice is a mite unsteady, Harold doesn’t mention it. The breaths become regimented with force as a mask comes down on his face.

“I am. Are you well?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Reese scoffs a bit at their surroundings. “Not very impressive inside the belly of the beast.”

“Indeed.” Harold replies rather weakly. He is pale in the half-light and sweat already beads his brow. 

“How is your leg Finch?”

The man hesitates before answering and Reese interrupts him, “Spare me the optimistic version.”

Harold firms his thin lips together and meets the steady gaze only briefly. “Extremely uncomfortable, but not, I think, life threatening.”

Reese accepts this with a nod, he can do little else. Harold is tied by hands but not ankles, their captors thinking his handicap binds him well enough. 

Harold suddenly gives a desperate plea full of more emotion than the reticent men usually shows. “We must not give them any information on the Machine or our mission.” 

Harold searches his face and Reese feels a tiny bit insulted. He nods anyway and says “Of course, wasn’t plannin’ on joining the dark side just yet.”

Harold arches a brow at him disapprovingly but there is affection in his expression for the irreverent comment. 

The door clunks clumsily and unlocks once, twice, then the bar lock slides open and the door creaks inward. Two burly guards enter first followed by the starched suit and precise step of Greer. The older man surveys his prizes for a moment and then cracks a deep, crevassed smile at them before clapping his hands once in genuine glee.  
“What an absolute pleasure to meet you again, face to face, Mr. Finch.” He strides closure and bows towards them a bit. “When last we met it was under more difficult circumstances, but I am looking forward to becoming your colleague soon.” 

Finch stares at Greer with a flat expression that has Reese smirking. 

“Your hospitality certainly leaves much to be desired.” Harold looks supremely unimpressed

“We were expecting an evil hideaway cave.” Reese adds.

Greer ignores their childish behavior and preens a bit before focusing only on Harold, Reese is not worth his time.

“We must get you healthy Harold, so that you may join the team and serve your new ruler.” The old man shakes his head with exaggerated concern. “We took the liberty of obtaining radiographs while you were unconscious.” 

Harold pales even more at this, feeling violated and exposed.

“Yes indeed, quite an interesting amount of hardware inside you, rather like a machine one might say.” Greer paces alongside Finch and studies him like a laboratory experiment. “We are in a hospital you know, an abandoned asylum, comes in use with our line of work to have medical access.”

Finch is very still and cannot seem to reply while John is seething at the intentional cruelty Greer is showing.

“You have a broken plate and screw in your pelvis and an underlying fracture at the site of original injury.” He tuts twice and smiles gravely. “One with your delicate nature must show more caution during inclement weather.”

The pain seems to rise as the injury becomes known and Finch clamps his jaw shut to control himself.

“I want you healthy, so I am bringing in a special guest, an excellent orthopedic surgeon to repair the damage. A show of good will.”

Harold looks sick and appalled and shrinks away from the tall figure while Reese leans towards him angrily. 

“Stop this game, let us go or kill us since we will never help you.” The man’s voice is quiet and dangerous.

Greer chuckles a bit and smiles again. “Such a loyal watchdog you have Mr. Finch. But don’t think I am helping you freely. No, you must give me something in return. The location of your young female associate will serve for now. Or perhaps your precious Machine.”

Harold looks away and shakes his head once decisively. “I will never aid you or Samaritan.”

“Ah, we were afraid you’d see it like that. In that case we will still repair your injury, in the spirit of cooperation you see, but unfortunately will have to do so with a caveat or two.” 

Greer does not explain further but motions for the goons to bring Harold. Reese shoots forward at them, still bound, to prevent them taking his friend.  
“No dramatics I beg you. You can of course join us John.”

Reese is surprised but does not struggle as they cut his ankle ties, only to rewrap them separately and join the loops so he has little range of motion to walk.  
A wheelchair is brought and Harold is unceremoniously dumped in despite struggling. He leans away and out but is strapped in by both wrists. He looks stricken by this more so than anything that has happened to him yet. Reese feels hot anger at the degradation of it.

Greer leads them into an antique surgical suite where Reese is manhandled down and Finch wheeled next to a low tech, ancient surgical table. Greer looks around at them like a teacher surveying his classroom and proclaims, “I have procured a board certified orthopedic surgeon Mr. Finch, have threatened him suitably so he will perform to the highest standards.

“Unfortunately, this procedure will take place without benefits of modern medicine. General anesthesia you see, is a luxury, rather than a right.” He wait for a beat, to see if they respond, then continues. “Should you survive the process, we can discuss your future cooperation.”

Reese grits his teeth against a harsh retort or a full body explosion of anger at the calculated torture Greer is suggesting. He looks over at Harold, still strapped in the hated wheelchair and sees the man is stark and speechless, unable to process such a horrendous proposition when he himself is incapable of such evil machinations.  
There is little time to react as Finch is wrenched from his chair, untied hastily, and flopped sideways onto the ancient surgical table. This shakes the man from his shocked stupor and he struggles madly, arms and legs and words flying fast and desperate. Reese too has jumped forward, hampered by his bindings but no less eager to show his captors his strength. Reese is able to knock into a guard and follow him to the ground before several sets of hands pin him to the floor. 

He cranes his neck up and through the chaos sees Harold wrestling with multiple people lying across him to restrain. The man is frenzied in a way Reese could never imagine, spitting and crying out and begging and pleading, unable to control his emotions normally so closely guarded. For a brief moment they pour from him as water from a broken dam, then slowly peter out until he lies limp and trembling on the cold stainless table.

One of the agents is wearing a navy lab coat and scrub pants. As Harold is restrained this man begins to unbutton coat and jacket and strip them from Harold’s torso. The desperate captive lets out a forlorn sound but has no ability to struggle as they strip his layers, one by one. After the overcoat and jacket the agent pulls off the silk waistcoat, soaked through from the snow and mud. The assistants restraining Harold roll him this way and that to help in the demeaning task. Harold’s tie is wrenched off next and Reese bucks and twists in loathing and hatred for these evil men. To treat anyone (even one so low as a criminal or thug) like this is deplorable, but to see someone like Harold being stripped clinically is agonizing.

Rees can only lie there and watch and yell threats he cannot carry out.

They rip his pressed shirt off forcefully and cufflinks scatter. This leaves him shivering and huddled in his plain white undershirt, thin arms glowing palely in harsh light.

Reese shudders as dispassionate fingers unbuckle the belt and wool trousers next, pulling them down as one in a rough stroke. Harold’s eyes are clamped shut and he is drawing into himself as much as his handlers will allow, curling into a comma. He is left in loose dark boxers and a snug undershirt, lean legs shaking and furled. His left calf and quadriceps are atrophied with ugly raised scars on the lateral aspect of the thigh disappearing up into the hem of his shorts. 

The undress blessedly stops here and Harold is secured sideways to the table not with straps, but with great swaths of clear plastic wrap that goes around and around him and under the table so that he is pinned firmly to it like shrink-wrapped grocery item. Reese sees his scrunched eyes and pretends not to notice the man is silently weeping. He seems to be whispering something that Reese cannot decipher.

This spurs him on, and Reese tries to rise again, shake the hands off him but is rewarded with a sharp kick and duct tape. They secure his arms and legs together behind him so he is in a contorted shape, then cover his mouth and chin, and a generous portion on his neck which impedes his breathing a bit. He is left on the floor like a broken toy and cannot move more than a slight rock to and fro. His own eyes are tearing up in frustration and anger and fear for the gentle soul trapped on the table.

A window is cut in the plastic wrap and a small portion of Finch’s shorts along his lateral hip. The area is scrubbed three times with orange soap then covered in a battered blue drape from a sterile pack. A sweating trembling middle aged man, mostly bald, is frog marched into the room, hands clasped to his gowned chest sterilely. He too is crying and resisting the men pushing him. “I will never do as you ask, it is against my oath and all I stand for.” He blubbers.

Greer is stood back and watches everything dispassionately. He steps forward now and simply says, “Shall I order your wife and child killed then?”

This takes the wind out of the surgeon’s sails. He slumps against the table and sobs for a second. He has just gotten control when he looks at his ‘patient’ and locks gazes with Finch’s, whose open eyes are massive and pale, lashes quivering in fear and anticipation. The surgeon rears back but there is someone behind him to stop this, a dark headed woman in a balaclava. “Get on with it buddy.” She growls.

Two surgery packs are opened and placed within easy reach by the assistant who now watches the surgeon expectantly. A cheap standing lamp illuminates the surgery site, a square of pale white skin and purple scar tissue amidst a field of sterile blue.

“You’re insane, this is torture, I will not, cannot…”. The surgeon is helpless and his hands are trembling so as to not be functional.

Greer says, “Your choice doctor. Either do this surgery or you and your family will be killed.”

“For the love of God, haven’t you anesthetics?” The man wails.

“He will have no relief unless he agrees to help me and my Associate.”

Harold is in obvious shock and does not interact or respond, even to try and reach out to the man above him.

Reese is screaming muffles curses behind his gag but they do not acknowledge him.

Greer motions to the women and she roughly pushes a set of film radiographs onto an ancient viewing box. She gives the surgeon a glare.

He studies the films through teary eyed vision. Then shakily grasps the number ten scalpel blade, places it on its handle and reluctantly positions it over old surgical scars. He presses experimentally, testing the tissue, then quickly incises through epidermis, dermis, and subcuticular tissue in one practiced sweep. Finch chokes and arches against the restraining material, the table shivers and shakes.

The surgeon cries silently as he bluntly dissects muscle and connective tissue revealing white periosteum with the orthopedic implant that is grown over by calloused bone. He touches his hemostats to the implant to find the defect.

Finch screams. 

The sound starts low and gurgles then quickly gains in pitch and volume until it seeps into every surface and rings every tympanic membrane in the room. 

“Oh my God…” The surgeon wails. Finch’s yell falls off quickly and he is gasping and coughing and gagging.

Reese has seen many horrible things in his life, many things he wants to wipe out from memory, but he thinks this is the worst thing he has witnessed. On any stranger (or even enemy) this would be horrific. It is inconceivable to see it happening to the proud, secluded genius he has come to know over the last years. Reese wishes for a moment that Finch would die, that the man’s strong heart would give out and he could be away from this suffering.

“Finish your work doctor.” Greer is quiet and serious. He does not take pleasure in unnecessary cruelty, but is aware that Samaritan has a plan and will follow it to the end.  
The surgeon shakes his head in denial and probes the plate again. He skillfully disengages four screws with his surgical drill, then pulls the plate off with a wet sound, two separate pieces where the break in the titanium is. 

This all takes less than a minute. Finch is hyperventilating, eyes rolling almost seizure like. He yells again but now it is quite weak and lasts just a second. He seems close to passing out which would be a welcome blessing for most everyone.

The surgeon places a new plate over the site. He is taking shortcuts and certainly failing standard of care, but his goal is to get this over with lightning fast without killing his patient or his family in the process. The slight, middle-aged man under his hands seems incredibly frail and not in the best of health. He begins to screw the plate down, five screws into the same holes previously used, but skips the sixth screw where the original stripped and broken piece remains in the bone. He will leave it and hope for the best.

Harold appears mostly unconscious by this point. The surgeon’s job is easy now as he closes the tissue in three layers and then collapses backwards in a dead faint himself. Harold pants on the table, mouth gaping like a fish. 

He mumbles something unintelligibly, then repeats it clearer, “Never tell…never.”

Greer scowls deeply and storms from the room. They will need a new plan now.

Watching Harold strapped to the table, a neat row of cruciate sutures along his abductor region, Reese has never felt more helpless. The rage he feels is equal to that when he discovered Jessica’s fate and he feels like falling off the edge again, escaping such tragedy in any way possible. But Harold needs him and the man lying there is alive and defiant despite the horror he has been through. 

In a final indignity the room is slowly emptied and Harold and Reese are left in their respective positions with no assistance. The only sound now the muffles yells from Reese and the hitched and repressed sobs from Finch. 

One person remains in the room, the masked women who held the surgeon in place and forced him to proceed.

She whips her hat off, shakes her full hair once and looks at each of them with a grim frown. “Fancy meeting you here boys.”

It is Shaw.

Her eyes are tired and black circles ring them. Her posture is slumped and she is thin to the point of emaciated. 

“Can’t dawdle or may look suspicious. Long story short, I work for Samaritan now and I’m supposed to help break you.” She leans in close to Reese who is staring at her unblinkingly and trying to decide if he’s had a mental break. 

She gives him an exaggerated wink and repeats, “Yeah, I work for the big bad now.” She jerks her head to the security camera mounted near the door.

Reese nods to show he understands her hint. She stands, reluctantly turns to the helpless lump of humanity shivering on the table.

“Sorry boss-man, had to be done.”

Finch is staring at her and seems confused. He blinks several times and squints too. His gaze soon turns unfocused as he wanders back into semi-consciousness.

“Gotta go. Take care now.”

She turns and leaves with a last strong stare at Reese.

It is silent now and Reese can only lie there in absolute impotence and watch the rise and fall of Finch’s skinny side through his sweat drenched shirt. Finch does not meet his eyes and continues to gaze half lidded at nothing.

Reese has never been able to lie around and do nothing so he slowly crawls and shifts until he is against the surgery trolley. He knocks it over with an awkward kick and sends the equipment crashing to the floor. He twists and turns until the bloody scalpel is against his taped wrists and ankles and starts rubbing against the blade. 

Eventually through minutes of positioning and patience he feels the bonds. He continues through the zip ties until he feels the pressure release fully.  
He rolls to his feet rubbing his wrists, rips off the tape over his face, leaning on the table for support. He uses the now dull blade to hack at the cellophane binding Harold from shoulders to knees.

Harold shifts and responds now, twisting his upper body somewhat to see Reese lent over him.

“Quite the mess we’re in, Harold.”

Reese has him free now and gentle rolls him so he is lying flat on his back, still shaking.

Harold is grey and clammy and his eyes distant but he mumbles back quietly. “Thank you, Mr. Reese.”

Reese pulls the overcoat from the pile of discarded clothing and drapes it over Finch’s exposed body. For the first time since Reese met him he thinks Finch looks feeble and old and defenseless. He feels a dread wash over him and shuts his eyes against the site.

This train of thought is soon interrupted however as Harold whispers, “I am ready to escape whenever you are.”

Reese is surprised by this but humors the man. “You got a plan?”

“Always.” The pursued lips are cracked and tremor but Finch’s expression is unbroken.

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Indeed. It’s as simple as this. I intend to hack Samaritan.”

Reese waits a moment and thinks Harold is delusional from pain and shock. But the man’s gaze is firm now and he looks resolute.

“How?”

Incredibly, Harold’s lips twist unevenly into a smile (more a grimace), then rasps, “Why, with Ms. Shaw’s assistance, and yours.”

He looks anything but a world-class genius hacker right now, but damned if Reese doesn’t feel a hint of pity for the evil AI.


End file.
